


hello. i hope somebody's listening.

by jublis



Category: Osemanverse, Radio Silence - Alice Oseman
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Jewish Frances, Pre-Canon, and i am PROJECTING, excessive quoting of poetry, frances is STRESSED and sometimes doesn't feel like a real person, frances is not having a good time, i say with my hands shaking because of a mix of energy drinks and coffee, mentions of depersonalization, pls frances baby take care of yourself, this is the first time she listens to universe city, what a growing trend!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:00:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24635716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jublis/pseuds/jublis
Summary: She moves and sits in front of her mirror and looks up. Far too many ghosts stories made her afraid to meet her own eyes after sundown, so she doesn’t. Frances straightens her spine and runs her fingers through her hair, and doesn’t wince at the knots she finds there. The room is dimly lit by the lamp on her bedside table and this could be a scene in a coming of age film. She looks at herself and smiles and doesn’t throw up. This could be a foreshadowing. This could be so much more than it is.There’s a sickness in her stomach. Her head feels strangely light and airy, and she sits on top of her hands so they don't shake. They still do. You will never forget yourself the way God forgets his hands. There’s nothing to hold but her own skin and Frances isn’t sure she wants it anymore.The worries and woes of Frances Janvier, and what it means to be a person. Character study-ish.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 13





	hello. i hope somebody's listening.

**Author's Note:**

> oh boy frances we're really in it now
> 
> i s w e a r i'll calm down now. i just needed to get this out of my system. frances janvier is the loml and i think we don't talk enough about her. 
> 
> enjoy!!

There’s static on the back of her throat.

No, that’s not right. It doesn’t even make sense. But there’s something under her skin, humming, making her fingertips go numb and then start prickling at the same time. She can feel her own heart, beating and sour in her mouth. Her eyes are wide open and she is so, so tired. 

It’s probably just the energy drink wiring her up. Whatever. She’s done this before. Her hands are shaking but she grips the pen between her fingers with practiced ease, and presses it against the paper. The paper rips. There’s blue ink on her hands and if she looks at it just right, it could almost be blood.

_ No.  _

Frances stays very still and does not look at the corner of her room. She’s not afraid of the dark, and she’s fine, and this is her home, and she is safe. Not all of those statements are lies, but most of them are. 

She’s fine. 

There’s a mirror on the wall across from her. Well, leaning against the wall. She got it as a Bat Mitzvah present and her Mum never got around at hanging it up. Now it sits there. Frances has learned to appreciate the aesthetic. She turns around on her chair blinks away the dizziness. The reflection is a shadow. She’s not a shadow, is she? She would know. She would. 

(But would anyone else? A shadow is just another kind of forgetting.  _ A ghost is just a dead thing that doesn’t know it’s dead. _ How many times, how many times can something change before it’s gone completely? Before it’s some kind of murder?)

She moves and sits in front of her mirror and looks up. Far too many ghosts stories made her afraid to meet her own eyes after sundown, so she doesn’t. Frances straightens her spine and runs her fingers through her hair, and doesn’t wince at the knots she finds there. The room is dimly lit the lamp on her bedside table and this could be a scene in a coming of age film. She looks at herself and smiles and doesn’t throw up. This could be a foreshadowing. This could be so much more than it is. 

There’s a sickness in her stomach. Her head feels strangely light and airy, and she sits on top of her hands so they don't shake. They still do.  _ You will never forget yourself the way God forgets his hands. _ There’s nothing to hold but her own skin and Frances isn’t sure she wants it anymore. School Frances doesn’t care. School Frances smiles and even sort of means it, and doesn’t avoid her own eyes in the mirror when checking her makeup, and School Frances is someone that Actual Frances is terrified of. Actual Frances looks down at her mismatched socks and her bare legs and bare arms and doesn’t know what to do with them. 

She picks up her phone from the bedside table. It’s cold to the touch. No new messages. The wallpaper is a generic picture of a snowy day. If Frances stops to think about it for too long it’ll mean something she doesn’t want to know. She tries not to pay too much attention to the person moving in her reflection and fails, but doesn’t say anything. There’s no one to listen, except for Mum across the hall. And Frances wouldn’t. She wouldn’t. How could she add to anybody’s tragedy like that?

Her tongue is made up of the things she won’t say. Her mouth is a study in articulating sentences she doesn’t mean. Frances looks at her mother every morning through eyes hazy with sleep and sometimes the grief is so big it makes her want to cry.  _ We were born from beauty, Ma _ . So why doesn’t it feel like it?

Something pops up on her Recommended on YouTube.  _ Universe City _ . She hasn't heard of it and it doesn’t matter. Frances adds it to her “watch later” list anyway.

Her hand keeps shaking. She lets it. Someone reblogged a quote on Tumblr and she looks at it for a second, then two, and then her screen goes dark. Sometimes she reads things that make her smile and it feels like a completely different form of grief. A happiness so big it aches. Being seen and being hurt are not that far apart. She unlocks the phone and screenshots the post. She doesn’t look at it again.

_ I crushed a monarch mid flight/ just to know how it felt to have something change/ in my hands. _

Something change, something change. That’s what she’s working towards, isn’t it? University, job, happiness. Change must be somewhere in there. Change comes with time. Time, time. The space where she is and is not. Light and the absence of it. Her lamp is flickering and she stands up to turn it off because she won’t get anymore work done anyway. Her legs tremble beneath her and oh, how does the verse go? Something about being eaten alive. About feeling weightless again. Sometimes she just wants to sleep and sleep and sleep until her skin isn’t so heavy anymore. It hasn’t worked so far.

Her bed is softer than she deserves. Frances puts her headphones in and closes her eyes and pretends it means something. She presses play on her “watch later” playlist and doesn’t move. 

  
_ Hello,  _ a voice says, and Frances breathes.  _ I hope somebody is listening. _

**Author's Note:**

> that was a RIDE.
> 
> most poetry (written in itallics) is from ocean vuong's "on earth we're briefly gorgeous," or richard siken's "crush." 
> 
> if you liked this, go scream at me on twitter @bornfrombeauty. as always, comments are kudos increase my life span.


End file.
